Читать книгу The Big Scoop - Sandra Kelly - Страница 11

WHEN HAD IT HAPPENED?

As he cruised along county road nineteen, scanning right and left for the Chelsea Country Inn, Jack wondered what Sally had meant by “just down the road.” He should have asked, of course. To the folks around here, everything was just down some road, or around some corner, when in fact it was a zillion miles away and cleverly hidden to boot.

More importantly, he wondered when, precisely, he had stopped being a caring, conscientious storyteller and become a jaded journalist. Everything they were saying about him at the Satellite was true. He was a snob. An egomaniac. A jerk.

As a novice reporter he’d treated every one of his assignments as a learning experience. Every story had given him valuable insight into people—the way they thought, the emotions they felt, the rationales they concocted for the sometimes inexplicable choices they made. Obviously, somewhere along the way he’d stopped learning and had started to assign values to his stories. This one a four, that one a seven. This one an important stepping stone in his career, that one just a waste of his precious time.

All seasoned reporters did the same. Jack knew that. But had he become so jaded that he’d actually forgotten how important a story was to the people involved in it?

Sally Darville was right. It wouldn’t have hurt him one bit to do some basic research for this assignment. He also should have done a few quick interviews with the folks in line at the dairy bar this afternoon. He should have gotten a head start on things. Dammit, he should have taken ownership of the assignment.

Sally didn’t think her story was a four. She thought it was a ten, and she was entitled to think that.

Man, she’d straightened him out in a hurry! A month of relentless ribbing from his colleagues hadn’t so much as dented his obviously gargantuan ego. But she’d put him smartly back in his place in less than ten minutes.

She wanted to save her town. How noble. How…decent.

She was a ten. If, Jack supposed, you went for that fresh-faced, blond-haired, milkmaid kind of look. Which he did, apparently. Even so, she was nothing like the women he dated in Vancouver. Any one of them, especially Liz Montaine, would eat her for breakfast.

He chuckled to himself. Then again, maybe not.

Crazily, he wondered how Sally would taste first thing in the morning. Sweet, like ice cream. Sweet Sally. Yeah.

Whoa there, buddy, he warned himself as the Mustang cleared a blind corner and the inn came into view. Don’t be thinking sweet Sally. Don’t be thinking Sally anything. Do your job, do it right, and get the hell out of here.

The Chelsea Country Inn turned out to be a tall yellow Victorian nestled in a grove of Ponderosa pines. Gingerbread trim and baskets of parched flowers adorned its wide wraparound porch, and the sun glinted off the stained glass transoms above its many narrow windows.

Jack parked in the otherwise empty gravel lot and let himself in through the open front door. Immediately to the right of the foyer was a small room that must have been a receiving parlor at one time. It had an old potbellied stove, a couple of fussy, overstuffed chairs and an ornate table that obviously served as the registration desk. What it didn’t have was a registration clerk.

“Anybody here?” he called out. When silence answered, he ventured a few steps down the hall and peered into a huge country kitchen. Someone had to be home. There was an array of chopped fruit on top of the room’s long worktable, along with an open carton of cream. He called out again. Still no response. As he was turning to leave, a big, brassy redhead burst through a door to his right. Seeing Jack, she let out a scream.

“Gracious living, boy!” Eyes bulging, she covered her heart with one plump, bejeweled hand and gulped for air. “You scared the daylights outta poor old Martha!”

Jack apologized for snooping. “I’m looking for a room for the night.”

“Well, I don’t know. I’ll have to see about that.”

While he wondered what exactly there was to see about—this was an inn, wasn’t it?—she twisted her generous mouth into a grimace and ruminated.

“It’s just for one night,” he assured her.

“Percy!” she hollered in the general direction of the backyard. “Get your butt in here. We got a guest, maybe.”

A tall, stooped man in cut-off denim shorts and work boots but no shirt came in through the back door. He paused at the sink to wipe the sweat from his brow, then loped across the big room. Giving Jack a friendly once-over, his eyes lit up like a jukebox. “Well, whaddaya know? Look, Martha, it’s Goldy!”

“Goldy” forced a smile. Obviously news traveled fast around here. “If you don’t mind, I prefer Jack.”

“You’re that hotshot reporter from Vancouver,” Martha said.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m Jack Gold from the Satellite.”

“Didn’t you win a—what did Elvira call it, Percy? A gandby, or something?”

“It was the Gobey Award, ma’am.” Something told Jack that Elvira Jackson and Martha were the means by which news traveled fast around here.

“Of course it was. She told us all about you, and you know our little Sally Sunshine hasn’t talked about anything else for days.”

Our little Sally Sunshine? Jack couldn’t help it. He smiled.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Percy said. “We’re the Pittles.”

No sooner had they shaken hands all around than Percy treated Jack to a resounding slap on the back, nearly propelling him headlong into Martha’s ample bosom. “You’re here to get the big scoop, aren’t you, Goldy?” They both chuckled merrily.

“Yes, sir. I am.”

Percy cleared his throat and turned serious. “Well, see son, the thing is, we’d love to have ya, but we’re all tied up here gettin’ ready for the annual peach-off. Whole town’ll be here for it tomorrow afternoon. Then, first thing Monday morning, Martha and I are headin’ to Grand Forks to visit the grandkids and, uh…”

“Now, Percy, don’t you be givin’ secrets away,” Martha admonished him with a stern warning look.

“Oh, right,” Percy said as Jack wondered what “secrets” a town like Grand Forks could harbor. “Well anyway, son, we’re closed for a week.”

Weary to the soles of his feet, thirsty, hungry, sweaty and only mildly curious as to what a peach-off might be, Jack asked if there wasn’t some way he could impose for just one night. The prospect of negotiating the valley’s dusty roads in search of a bed and bath was unbearable. He’d sooner crawl into the Mustang and die.

“Well…” Martha squinted at her husband. “There is the honeymoon suite. Bed’s made, at least.”

As Jack grew resigned to his impending suicide, the Pittles launched into a lengthy discussion of just whether or not they should be taking on a guest, what with all that was going on and…

“Squawwwwwwwwk.”

The screech coming from the far corner of the room gave Jack a jolt. He’d spotted the parrot in the gilded cage soon after entering the room, but had taken it for a stuffed ornament.

“Squawwwwwwwwk. Polly wants a martini.”

In a stern voice, Percy told the bird it was “too early” for cocktails, then turned to Jack. “Tell you what, Goldy. Martha and I have to run into town and pick up a few things for the party. If you’ll keep an eye on this place, we’ll give you that suite for the night.”

Jack said he couldn’t thank them enough, then followed Martha down a long hall and into a bed-sitting room fresh off a Norman Rockwell canvas. Big and bright, it had a quilted sleigh bed, a tea table, a hand-hewn rocking chair and a mess of needlepoint cushions only his mother could love. Actually the room was beautiful—if you liked little pink and green hearts.

Martha told him to help himself to whatever he wanted from the kitchen, then looked him over sadly. “Goldy, did you pack a bag? You’re lookin’ a little mangy ’round the edges.”

The Satellite occasionally sent him on overnight assignments, so Jack kept a shaving kit in the trunk of the Mustang, but he hadn’t brought a change of clothes along on this trip. “No, ma’am, I’m afraid I didn’t.”

“Tell you what. There’s a robe in your bathroom there. You leave your grubbies outside the door and I’ll put ’em in the washer. You’ll have to put ’em in the dryer, though. Can you manage that?”

Jack said he could. A cool shower, clean clothes, a snack, dinner with a pretty milkmaid and a comfortable bed. Things were looking up. As soon as Martha left the room, he gave up his clothes and went into the bathroom, only to discover that the “robe” in question was a woman’s pink paisley housecoat with a lace collar and satin piping. Nice. His beer buddies would howl.

After the Pittles left, he took a long, cool shower, donned the ridiculous robe and ambled into the kitchen. An apple and a hunk of cheese later, he called Marty McNab at the Satellite. “Hey, boss.”

“Hey, Jack. How’s it going? Did you get the big scoop?” There was the sound of a hand covering a receiver, some muffled chat and a chorus of howls. Obviously Marty had a room full of reporters covering the weekend beat.

“No, I didn’t, Marty.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I haven’t done the interview yet.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Well, it’s sort of complicated.”

Polly let out another squawk. “Polly wants a gin and tonic!”

“Who was that?” Marty asked. “Are you at a party?”

“No. Just so you know, I’m staying here tonight.”

“You’re kidding. Why?”

“Because I’m going to need more time than I thought, that’s why.”

From the tsk, tsk sound he made, you’d think Marty was trying to reason with an idiot. “Jack, Jack, Jack. There’s no story there, and you know it.”

“Really, boss? Then why did you send me here?”

Marty chuckled low in his throat.

“Anyway, there is a story here. At least I think there is.”

“Oh yeah? What’s the angle?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Jack said honestly. “Woman saves a dying town with ice cream—something like that.” He recalled the flush in Sally’s cheeks, the fire in her eyes, the passion in her pitch.

“For crying out loud, Jack. It was a joke. You’ve served your time. You can come home now.” There was more chortling behind Marty. Someone laughed loud enough to induce a coughing fit.

Jack squeezed his eyes shut. “I know it was a joke, Marty. I may be arrogant, but I’m not stupid.”

“Then bang off three paragraphs and e-mail them to me tonight. We’ll run them tomorrow and that’ll be the end of it.”

No, Jack thought, surprised by the depth of his own renewed passion. Sally expected—and deserved—more. “That won’t be possible. I’m dining with my source tonight.”

“Dining? Where are you? Club Med?”

Jack grinned. “Gee, boss, I thought you told me to treat this assignment as a vacation.”

Marty grumbled and groused as Jack promised to do the interview during dinner and write the piece tomorrow. “You can run it on Monday.”

“Sunday, Monday, whatever. Just remember, Jack, Northern Consolidated and Blain Enterprises are holding a press conference on Monday morning to announce that merger. It’s a big story. I need you there.”

Jack was well aware of the conference. No sweat. He’d be home long before then. “Don’t fret, boss.”

There was a moment’s silence. “Listen, Jack. Since you’re there anyway, do me a favor, would you? Drop in and give my best to Charlie Sacks at the Post. We were college roommates back in the day.”

“Tomorrow is Sunday, Marty. The Post will be closed.”

“Then look him up at home. I’m sure he won’t mind.”

Jack said he would if, and only if, he found the time. Ending the call, he tallied the damage to date: Dine with Sally, do the interview, tour the dairy barn, look at Sally’s photos, get some sleep, visit the dairy bar, visit with Charlie Sacks, drive home, write the article, get some sleep….

“How ’bout we have that drink later,” he said to Polly, but the bird had nodded off. Seemed like a good idea. Maybe he should grab a nap, too. His watch read four-fifteen.

“AND SO I THOUGHT, well hey, why not? I mean, we’ve always produced milk and cheese and butter and cream, but never ice cream, and all the other big dairies do, so why not us? We have the talent and the equipment. We’re perfectly capable. Soooooo, to make a long story short, we experimented with different recipes, Tilly and I, for months on end. You, know, various ratios of fruit to cream and so on, and then it just became a matter of…”

Seeing Jack’s eyes glaze over, Sally trailed off and gave him a rueful look. After his appalling behavior this afternoon, he deserved an earful. But she’d been babbling away at him practically nonstop for three hours now—right through cocktails, appetizers, dinner with wine, coffee, liqueurs and double helpings of Peach Paradise. They were seated together on her sofa now, trying not to touch.

“I suppose you don’t need all of this information,” she said with a nervous laugh. What was it about this guy that made her schizoid?

Jack shook his head. “Not true. It’s an old rule of thumb in feature-writing that more is better. I may not use everything you’ve given me, but it’s good to have it.”

Okay, that was sweet. As promised, he was taking her seriously. Frankly, it was a little hard to take him seriously in that ridiculous getup—Percy Pittle’s baggy denim coveralls and Pretty Peach Party Hardy T-shirt. She’d avoided mentioning it up until now, but couldn’t resist any longer.

“Jack Gold, I can’t believe you’ve been in town less than one day and have already sunk to the level of farm fashion. Did Martha dress you, or did you manage this yourself?”

“I’m afraid it’s my own doing. If I hadn’t overslept, I would have had time to dry my own things. And, actually, these jeans are pretty comfortable. I might just change my look.”

“Oh no, don’t do that!” Sally blushed furiously. What a dumb thing to say. It was important to keep things professional here. What with the lobster bisque, the ten-year-old chardonnay, her barely-there white minidress and the ravish-me scent she surely must be giving off, Jack would think she was trying to seduce him. Worse, he’d think she was trying to influence him. Oh, yes. Sally Darville, couch-friendly starlet of the dairy set. Willing to exchange favors for favorable copy.

What had she been thinking, sitting this close to him? Everything she didn’t want to notice about the guy was right in her face. His silky tawny hair, curling slightly at the edges. His long lashes, blond at the rim, darker at the ends, framing those stunningly intelligent eyes. Oh, and his hands. The man had beautiful hands. She could just imagine them….

Enough already!

“So,” her motormouth drove on, “I think we should talk about the story. I’m thinking a full—no, that’s excessive—a half-page feature, maybe, as the main article, plus photos, of course, and possibly a sidebar story. A history of Darville Dairy. Or, perhaps, a profile of Peachtown. What do you think?”

Jack stared at her as if she were deranged. Then—what nerve, honestly—he threw back his head and roared. “Tell me something, Sally Darville. Do you always get your own way?”

“Of course not,” she lied. “But, this is my story.” Why did she have to keep reminding people of that?

“Maybe so, but it’s my story assignment, and I’ll decide how to handle it.”

Sally couldn’t think of a single good response to that. It was his assignment, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

They lapsed into an oddly comfortable silence and gazed at one another. Sally tried hard to read Jack’s eyes, but they were inscrutable. Darn it, he had to feel the attraction, too. All those lust motes in the air couldn’t be hers alone.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked. “More coffee? More Peach Paradise?” Could I drag you into my bedroom and never let you leave it?

Jack’s hands flew up as if to ward off an attack. “No thanks, Sally. If I eat more of that fabulous ice cream tonight, I’ll explode. But if you can spare a pint, I’d love to take it back to the inn with me.”

“No problem.” Sally went into the kitchen and pulled a carton from the freezer. Setting it on the counter, she grabbed a moment. Whew. Never in her life had she been so physically attracted to a man. And why did it have to be this man? First of all, he was a conceited jerk. He might be making nice tonight, but his true colors had been on full display this afternoon. Secondly, he probably had a steady girlfriend in Vancouver—some slick corporate babe with a million teeth and a closetful of stilettos. Thirdly, he was a reporter and she was a source. There was a clear conflict of interest.

Of course, once the story was written, that would no longer apply….

No. It was no good. He’d be writing the article in Vancouver, not here. And once it was written, he’d be out of her orbit forever. She closed her eyes and whispered, “Forget it, Sally. Not going to happen.”

When she got back to the living room, Jack was on his feet by the front door, looking at something. “This hinge is about to give. If you remind me in the morning, I’ll tighten it up for you.”

Oh wow, Sally thought, handsome and handy. “Great. I’d appreciate that.”

He thanked her for a terrific interview and a lovely evening.

Handing him the ice cream, she said, “I’ll expect you around nine tomorrow, Jack. I trust that’s not too early for you?”

“No problem. I plan to be on the road by noon at the latest.”

She feigned ignorance. “You mean I won’t get to read the article before you go?”

“No. I’ll write it at home tomorrow night. And even if I did have time to write it here, it’s strictly against Satellite policy to clear copy with sources.”

“I wouldn’t change a word of it,” Sally lied.

“Oh yeah? How many times have I heard that? Anyway, I promise to do the story justice, Sally. You don’t have to worry about that.” He seemed to recall something then. “Speaking of promises, I told my editor I’d look up Charlie Sacks tomorrow. I expect you know him?”

Sally rolled her eyes. “Everybody knows Charlie.”

“Could I impose on you to make the introduction? I only know the man by reputation, and I generally don’t like to bother people at home on Sunday.”

“I’d love to! Um, I mean, sure, no problem.”

Sally walked Jack to the Mustang, then stood there feeling foolish and girlish and awkward while he fumbled for his keys. Was it just her or did he seem a little nervous, too? What possible reason could he have to…?

Their eyes met. Overhead a million stars twinkled like diamonds on a bed of black velvet. Somewhere in the distance a night owl screeched. Then Jack Gold did something so inappropriate, and so utterly unexpected, it left Sally reeling for hours. Instead of shaking hands, he bent down and kissed her gently on the cheek, then jumped into his car and sped off. Just like that.

She let out a yell. Yes! It wasn’t just her! He did feel the attraction, too. Mind whirling, she raced inside and called Charlie. It was late, but so what? He owed her.

“Charlie, sweetie, remember that time I baby-sat your five grandkids?”

“Ah, you’re not gonna bring that up again, are you?”

“Remember how they ran me ragged for three hours?”

“Oh now, Sally, ragged is a strong word….”

“Listen up, Charlie. I need a favor.”